


هدية (Gift)

by Shirokokuro



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: (past) Child Neglect, Adults in Positions of Power, Alternate Universe, Batdad, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Bruce: well I guess you're mine now, But like a smol baby assassin, Domestic Fluff, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Mysticism, Near Eastern Culture, POV Child, Tim Drake is an Assassin, Tim: shows up at the Manor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:41:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27602929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shirokokuro/pseuds/Shirokokuro
Summary: Tim receives an assignment, and Bruce receives a gift.
Relationships: Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne
Comments: 28
Kudos: 238





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Translation notes at the end

These things have a tendency to happen on cold mornings. There’s a rolling gloom over the snow, fractured by the occasional posh streetlight, and it reads like a nineteenth century novel, full of unexplained mystery and dread. It would be an apropos comparison if not for the seven-year-old trudging his way through the storm.

Timothy’s used to deserts, just not one quite like this. What he remembers is cracked earth, sun-leathered faces, and waking up with dust in his hair. He misses it all already, even White Ghost’s grimace whenever Timothy paused to talk to the parakeet in Ra’s' study. “Too childish,” the man commented, in spite of all the things Timothy does.

Has done.

Ra’s simply sipped his wine with renewed thoughtfulness.

Timothy wonders, in retrospect, if that isn’t why he’s here now, entering through the front door of the stately Wayne Manor. The security systems were turned off, almost like the now-sole resident didn’t care who entered. The unlocked entrance shares the sentiment.

Perusing the foyer, Timothy scrutinizes the light-caught specks that scatter in the air, the film of dust on the floor; he’s surprised the furniture hasn’t been covered with sheets.

“Hello?” Timothy asks.

His own voice rings back to him.

It feels sacrosanct that the lights remain off, so the boy wanders up the grand staircase in the dark, shivering as the snow starts to melt into his clothes. The icy stares of the portraits compound the dread like the _shayāṭīn_ he heard about growing up, demonic whispers in his ears, slinking through his blood.

Timothy locks his gaze on the floor until the hall bifurcates.

A drape-covered painting hangs within the vanishing point, all other lines in the corridor being sucked into that space as he draws nearer.

Timothy hesitates opposite it. Something about the portrait makes his lungs freeze. Maybe it’s because it’s the only one that’s covered. Or because he can still make out the ghost of a smile through the fabric.

He quickly turns away.

Eventually, Timothy finds other footprints on the floor, clean spaces where the dust has been thrown. They’re big and lumbering, and the gait is skewed. “Hello?” Timothy repeats to the closed rooms, wary of the warped moonlight that claws the walls.

No answer.

The footsteps appear to be his only lead, taking him further into the Manor until Timothy notices them turn into an ajar doorway. There’s still no sound, but there’s the smallest breath of light exhaling into the main corridor.

Without a sound, Timothy maneuvers himself through the slit.

A fire is the genesis of the glow, just embers now, half-dead in the ash.

The back of an armchair looms across from him.

“Who sent you?” a voice asks.

The embers collapse.

“…Ra’s al Ghul.”

The voice laughs bitterly, a hand reaching out to grasp at a crystalline flask. The contents pour into a shot glass while the snow shrieks and rattles the windows. “The Demon’s Head? How quaint.”

Timothy doesn’t agree with that choice in adjective, but the deranged tone keeps him silent. “You _are_ Mr. Wayne…aren’t you?”

Timothy imagines the man nods within the quiet; it’s too dark to spy his reflection in the windows, and the snow’s just loud enough to mask the shift of clothing. Still unsure, the boy steps forward, cautiously passing the chair with care to not look the man in the face. Instead, he continues under the pretense of stoking the fire. It crackles and spits into the dark but doesn’t revive.

“And just who are you supposed to be?”

Timothy catches a log with the fire poker and stuffs it back inside. “A gift,” he answers.

The man snorts, somehow more macabre than before. “The only gift Ra’s sends is death.” He takes a hearty swig. “Not such a bad one, on further reflection.”

The windows shake again.

“Well,” the man restarts, clearing the alcohol from his throat. “You came. Now are you going to end this conversation, or has Ra’s lost his nerve?”

The ember-light flickers over Timothy's skin, but he’s still shaking from the cold. He doesn’t dare move, though—not with the man’s gaze on the back of his head like a sniper scope. “I’m not here to kill you.”

“Then you should leave.”

“…I can’t.”

The man huffs indignantly, and a fresh cap pops as the man prepares himself another drink.

“My master would not be happy if I returned without fulfilling my assignment.”

Understanding the euphemism, the man swallows down another draft. “And what exactly are you here to do?”

Timothy returns the fire poker. “ _Ana hadia_ ,” he repeats, turning for the first time.

The man looks unimpressed by the declaration, slumped back in his chair. “A gift,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He sets his drink aside. “Right.”

Timothy waits while the man sits. His posture is loose, limp, and there are marks beneath his eyes over grey flesh, brought out by the black of his turtleneck. His hair is unkempt and his face unshaven.

Slowly, Mr. Wayne lifts his hand, pulling his fingers back in a gesture for Timothy to draw nearer. The boy obeys, pausing at the front of the man’s knees but startles when the man leans forward. He hates himself for showing weakness. And yet, in front of a man who looks like he’d rather drink himself to death, he can’t help it: People with nothing to lose are always the most dangerous.

“Name?” the man inquires, resting his elbows on his thighs.

“Timothy.”

The man raises an eyebrow, seeming to imply the question of Timothy’s surname.

(Timothy can’t. Doesn’t. Not even his father’s _given_ name…)

“Tim,” the man decides, because apparently formality was the issue.

Tim nods. He can work with that.

Then, at a glacial pace, the man reaches a hand out and settles his fingertips on the side of Tim’s neck. The boy almost pulls away, flinches back, because he knows the strength of those hands. It’d take nothing of the man to twist the bones there. But Tim stays still and feels his arteries beat against the finger pads. The man must be checking if Tim’s really real.

Tim, on the other hand, is hyper-aware of how alive he is: He can feel the alcohol-warmth of the man’s skin, the air pulsing in each space of his lungs.

Tim loathes that he’s shaking, and he hopes Mr. Wayne understands it’s not out of fear. It could be—out fear, that is—but Tim reminds himself it’s not.

Instead of commenting on that, however, the man’s eyes fall to Tim’s hands. Half of his fingers have turned white.

“The furnace will take a while to work with all the windows,” Mr. Wayne muses, shifting to take Tim’s hands in his. His skin is rough, but his touch is soft.

Mr. Wayne’s not looking at him anymore, instead focused on the snow outside while he warms Tim’s fingers. “The boiler system would be faster,” he thinks aloud. “I think there’s some milk in the fridge, too….”

Tim listens and observes, still on edge. The man’s attention flickers back to him.

“You can’t go back,” he states, a near-question.

Tim shakes his head.

“No family, I take it?”

Another headshake.

“OK…,” Mr. Wayne breathes, contemplating, before he draws to a stand. “Come with me,” he says gingerly, keeping one of Tim’s hands in his.

The fire’s already put itself out, so Mr. Wayne leads them out of the room without further fanfare. It’s colder here, and Tim’s ribcage trembles in spite of himself, something his companion can no doubt tell. “There’s one this way,” the man half-explains, cracking open a door off the anteroom. There’s an en suite behind it, and Mr. Wayne leads him into the attached washroom to start running a bath.

“I’m going to turn on the boiler,” he says to Tim, handing him a bottle. “Add as much of this as you’d like, although a capful should be plenty. You can get in when the water’s hot. Should get you back to normal.”

Tim blinks, a few steps behind in the conversation, but Mr. Wayne’s already left. The boy turns the bottle over in his hands. A cartoon lion is on the front, back-stroking in a pool of bubbles with oversized swimming goggles on. _A capful_ , the man said, so Tim follows the instructions, surprised how quickly the concoction stirs to life.

They never used bubbles in any of the _ḥammāms_ he’s been to.

Instantly, Tim’s homesick for the Turkish baths back home, the ottoman tiles blossoming blue on the walls, the smooth-to-the-touch cotton towels. Owens had taken him to one once—a long time ago, but it made enough of an impact to define what home means.

Tim swirls his wrist in the water idly, wondering how long he’s going to be here with this strange man in this foreign place. All the assignments he’s ever had were of short duration. A week. Two weeks at the most.

This one feels indefinite.

Exhaling, Tim pulls his hand out (The water’s hot.) and removes his clothes to get in. He’s instantly filled with warmth, his toes tingling from the returning feeling. Definitely a good idea, he decides, although the bubbles _are_ a bit much, clinging to his skin like garlands and stringing a ring along the bathtub.

There’s a knock on the door.

“Can I come in?” Mr. Wayne’s voice comes.

Tim’s not really sure if he’s allowed to say no even if he wanted to, but the whole top layer of bubbles is decent enough. In hindsight, he thinks that was the point.

“Yes,” Tim answers, pulling up a handful of bubbles to watch them fizzle.

Mr. Wayne’s head pokes in, looking considerably more sober than fifteen minutes ago. It must be a curse of sorts, to want to drink yourself out of your mind but to not be able to get anything more than buzzed.

“I fixed you some milk,” the man offers, putting down a small pile of clothes to hold out a mug.

Tim takes it politely. His first thought is poison, his second is drugs. He wants to pour it out but knows Mr. Wayne’s smart enough to notice, and well… Ra’s _did_ order this of him.

_“Do what he asks,” the Demon’s Head said, admiring the granite-white Milky Way. “Whatever he needs. Be kind to him.”_

Tim drinks.

The milk curls in his stomach like tonic, but Tim doesn’t feel much more than sleepy. He assumes that’s innocuous enough.

“Warm?” the man asks, having pulled out a number of bottles. They smell sweet, like vanilla and hazelnuts, and the bottles look silky smooth.

Tim nods.

“I’m glad,” Mr. Wayne continues harmlessly. “Hopefully the rest of the house will be warmer soon. We haven’t seen this harsh a winter in a long time.” The man pours a small amount of shampoo into his palms and rubs it into his younger’s hair. Tim’s not sure exactly what to do, what the intent is there, but it feels nice. Nicer than most things in his life have been, so he lets the man card the suds through without protest.

“Tim,” the man says, “can I ask you something?”

Tim bobs his head.

“What happened to your family?”

It’s the question Tim always dreads, regardless of who asks it. “I don’t know,” he answers, shaping the bubbles into small mountains before leveling them with a methodical slowness. “White Ghost said they found me in the desert. I was wandering all by myself. Maybe for hours. My skin was burned horribly from the sun, but Ra’s said I never cried.”

“Have you?”

Tim looks up.

“Cried?” Mr. Wayne clarifies, scooping some water in his palm to pour over Tim’s head. Tim’s glad for the distraction; he doesn’t understand why the detail would be important.

“I…don’t think so…” Tim finally speaks, confusion evident.

Mr. Wayne hums soothingly. “Another question?”

Tim watches him, indicating for him to continue.

“Have you ever killed anyone?”

The boy reads his face.

Waits.

“Yes.”

A moment, then a sigh. “OK,” Mr. Wayne says. “You won’t do that anymore. Do you understand?”

Tim nods.

“Good.” Mr. Wayne lets his hand rest in the water a comfortable distance away from Tim, then shakes off the droplets. “Feels like it’s getting cold. Are you warm enough?”

“Uh-huh.”

“All right.” The man pushes himself off his knees to a stand. “There are some clothes here for you to change into. They’re probably a little big, but it was the best I could find on short notice.”

“Thank you.”

Mr. Wayne half-smiles—the expression clearly out of practice, retrieving the now-empty mug off the crown of the tub. “Push this button to drain the water,” he explains, and then he’s gone.

Tim lingers for a moment longer. He’s a little surprised by Mr. Wayne, how easily he accepted him. Ra’s always said he had a weakness for children, but Tim was still expecting to have to convince him. It seems Mr. Wayne was really as bad off as Ra’s assumed.

Tim shakes the drape-covered portrait out of his mind.

Changing quickly into the tunic-length long-sleeve and woolly socks, Tim pokes his head out of the bathroom door. It’s freezing by comparison, and Tim clutches the soaked towel to his chest as he shuffles out of the en suite and into the corridor.

“Mr. Wayne?” he asks through chattering teeth, thoroughly missing his garment from earlier, inconspicuously black albeit thinner in material.

Soon enough, Mr. Wayne appears with silent footsteps (It shouldn’t surprise Tim, honestly, the way he materializes out of nothing.) “We can just put this here,” the man offers, hanging the towel on the door handle to dry. Then, he kneels and gestures for Tim to come closer. Tim complies, struggling to hide his shivering.

“Is it OK if I…” The man makes an aborted gesture. Tim tilts his head.

“Just… Here.” Mr. Wayne gently slips an arm around him and hoists Tim up. He’s shockingly warm, and the side of Tim that’s next to him is immediately more comfortable. “Is this OK?”

Tim’s brain stutters, catching the smell of the hazelnut-shampoo on an inhale. “Uh-huh.”

The hallway starts to pass them by. “The furnace still won’t work very well for a few more hours,” Mr. Wayne comments, and Tim stares. (He’s never been carried before. He’s not sure…what he should be feeling.) “I figure you should probably sleep with me tonight, just so I know you’re fine. Then tomorrow…well, we’ll go from there.”

“I can’t leave,” Tim explains.

Mr. Wayne stops beside a window, boring holes into his own reflection. He rubs Tim’s back while he thinks. “Tim. What was it exactly? That Ra’s asked of you?”

Tim considers how honest he should be. Mr. Wayne seems to appreciate that—integrity, but Tim doesn’t know if he’ll appreciate the truth on this topic.

“He told me,” Tim decides, “to love you as much as I love him.”

Mr. Wayne’s hand pauses, then continues. “Why?”

Tim just traces the shoulder seam of the man’s shirt, staying silent.

“You don’t have to love me,” Mr. Wayne says. “I’m not Ra’s, and I refuse to be.”

“I know.” They both look at each other. “It’s why Ra’s wants you so badly,” Tim clarifies, “because you’re the only thing he can’t have.”

“I suppose so….” Mr. Wayne inhales deeply, his chest swelling against Tim’s. “We can talk more in the morning. For now, bed is probably a good plan.”

Tim presses closer to the man with a sleepy yawn. He can’t remember the last time he slept, and the bed Mr. Wayne sets him down on instantly molds to him like an embrace. It sways when Mr. Wayne sits down beside him, mirroring his yawn as he pulls back the comforter for Tim. The underside is cold but the kind that will warm up with time.

“Tim?”

“Hmm?”

“What is it that _you_ want?”

Tim falters. He’s never been asked, despite something instantly coming to mind. “I dunno,” he lies, smoothing a crease in the blanket. “I guess I’ve never given it much thought….”

Mr. Wayne ruffles his hair gently, then gets under the covers himself. He looks exhausted, even more so than earlier, but in a contented way. “I hope you can find it,” he says. “Whatever it is.”

Tim moves to see the man’s expression, but he’s already passed out, an arm resting over Tim like a shield. The boy wrestles with the words, trying to imagine what they mean. If there’s a motive to them or if they’re just the thoughts of someone on the peak of sleep.

They can’t be words intended for a stranger.

That wouldn’t be possible.

But it’s the kind of phantasmic thing that sticks in Tim’s mind, in a house he’s never been to, with someone he doesn’t know who’s just said something more personal to him than anyone has in his life.

It’s an instance that makes him question. Just a fleeting idea, really, but still, Tim lays there considering if the life he’s led has been truly void of…anything.

And then he remembers Ra’s, and no. He has to be significant.

The Demon’s Head could never be anything but.

Tim closes his eyes, strong in that creed, and lets himself coil closer to the person beside him. He’s content in serving something bigger. That’s all he needs. And yet, in his dreams, he continues to walk among blue-bead sands and sapphire stars and searches for something he’s never had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, I was going to keep some of the Arabic in its traditional script, but considering that Arabic is read from right to left and English is the opposite, I figured it'd be kind of clunky, even for Arabic speakers. 
> 
> I merely have a passing interest in the language and Near Eastern culture in general; by no means do I intend to imply that I'm an expert in any way. With that said, corrections are much appreciated! ^-^
> 
> شياطين (shayāṭīn) devils, demons, evil spirits (This can often have a religious connotation with relation to Islam, much in the same way as "devil" is oft to have a Christian connotation in English. Distinguishable from جن ("jinn", "djinn", or more commonly recognized in English as "genie") in the idea that شياطين are purely malevolent spirits whilst جن can be malevolent or benevolent.)
> 
> “أَنَا هدية.” (ana hadia) I’m (a) gift. (I translated this on my own, so this could be erroneous.)
> 
> حمّام (ḥammām) Turkish-style bath house, hammams is an accepted English pluralization


	2. Chapter 2

_The League of Assassins plays games with shadows._

_Timothy is among them, svelte as twilight, deadly as night shade. Morality warps in those spheres. Acrid air begins to smell like perfume, like sandalwood and cedar and bouquets of tourniquets, and into that paradox steps an idea. A man._

_Ra’s al Ghul gives reality shape. He commands it into straight lines with a wave of his hand, signals death with a simple smile. Ra’s never succumbs to it: death. He controls it with a power larger than understanding, and truly, that’s what assassins crave._

_Being a part._

_Timothy yearns for it, would die for it. The League provides him such purpose, and the devotion he gives in turn is one forged in a hearth of hard-earned gains, leaving him a swift blade with blood at its tip and orders at its hilt. It’s a lethal breed of loyalty. Loyalty nonetheless._

_That’s all Timothy has._

_The truth of that is proven to him every time he sees the nomads of the Syrian Steppe. The League trades with them often for basic supplies, paying them handsomely despite the polite suspicion given in turn. They’re an honest people, wise in superstition, and Timothy suspects that’s where the caution stems from._

_Nomads deal in honor._

_Assassins deal in blood._

_Trading with The League is the only way their traditions survive, however, an alternative to the oil fields or military, and so, every week like clockwork, a few pick-ups rumble into the encampment with Salukis in the back, the dogs’ tongues lolling while they lounge beside folds of woolen embroideries, breads, and dromedary milk. The nomads speak quietly to one another in a dialect that curls more than standard Arabic—one that only Ra’s seems to fully appreciate or understand—charms flashing from their necks like metronomes in bright turquoise, others with paper amulets wrapped in leather. Timothy knows they wear the talismans because of their dealings with The League, and he wonders in the mornings how much of their culture has been lost already, how much they’ve sacrificed to keep what’s left alive. And most importantly, if what they’ve given up has been worth it at all._

_Either way, the transactions between them are always fast and efficient. The truck beds are emptied, payment is given, and the men climb back into the pick-ups with shoulders lower than when they arrived. As they pull away, Timothy can’t help note the glances that find their ways to each assassin, askance with the wariness of men condemned, until they land on Timothy himself, the only child of the group._

_There’s pity there._

_A humanness._

_As the years go by, they let him pet the dogs, giving him handfuls of dates or_ Qabaqib Ghawar _candies. “You shouldn’t stay here,” an old trader whispers while Tim chews at some figs they gave him. “That man, he is blank-eyed.”_

_Timothy knows they’re referring to Ra’s but doesn’t understand the expression._

_“Dangerous,” another man explains while unloading a barrel of water. “Men like that want everything. They’re never satisfied.”_

_“Ra’s isn’t like that,” Timothy counters from where he’s perched in the back of the truck. One of the dogs makes a pass at a fig but only earns an absentminded pet as Tim tosses the last one in his mouth. “He takes care of me. I’d be dead without him.”_

_“Yes,” the man concedes, “you very well might have been. But are you truly alive with him?”_

_“What do you mean?”_

_The man stops working for a minute, glancing around at the assassins in the windows. White Ghost is on the ramparts, negotiating with the head trader, so he’s not really watching._

_“Here,” the man whispers, removing a necklace from where it’d been dangling against the white of his tunic. It’s the most beautiful turquoise Timothy’s ever seen, metal bobbles chiming around it and nestled between beads of blue. “Wear this under your shirt. A young boy should not be without one.”_

_Timothy accepts it in the palm of his right hand, the chain swirling like a snake around the stone. He’s mesmerized. “I don’t deserve this,” the six-year-old says, intending to keep the thought to himself._

_“It’s a gift. You don’t need to earn it.”_

_The turquoise shines as if it’s a dear friend, the heft a comforting one. “I’ll treasure it all my life.”_

_The trader smiles. “There is a reward for kindness in every living thing.” He pats Timothy’s shoulder. “Keep it well.”_

_Like a selcouth secret, Timothy instantly pulls the charm over his head and hides it beneath his shirt. He does feel safer with it for whatever reason, and he’s so enamored that he doesn’t notice the calculated turn of White Ghost’s head in their direction._

* * *

The first morning of Tim’s stay, Mr. Wayne shows him to a bedroom down the hall. It’s a nice place, definitely spacious, but on his fourth day here, Tim still hasn’t spent a night in his own bed. He continues to wake up in Mr. Wayne's room to find the man’s pulled him close against his chest. It’s the same every morning, and Tim thinks it must be helping his grief.

There couldn’t be any other explanation.

The man’s face is clean-shaven now, the tiredness draining from his eyes despite a vestigial sadness. He still has moments of stillness—the ones in which he sees something that must trigger a memory—but they’re growing less frequent, less harsh.

The portrait in the hall, though, remains covered.

Tim avoids it when he can, combing every other part of the house. The gardens, the basement, even the vents. Tim knows where he’d strike if necessary and where he’d slip away. He can’t help himself: It’s habitual.

On his fifth day, Tim’s coming back from the old cellars, scrubbing the cobwebs out of his hair. He takes a turn, meaning to find his way back to his room to jot down a new exit strategy, when he finds Mr. Wayne.

There.

In front of the painting.

Tim doesn’t move. He should, but he’s certain Mr. Wayne’s already seen him and Tim doesn’t know how to handle that.

Mr. Wayne, as it happens, is the one to make the first move.

“The New Year’s charity gala is next month,” the man says, almost to himself. He’s holding what appears to be the invitation. “I took him…last year. He tried to trip the alderman so that he fell into the hors d’oeuvres. Said his toupée would look better on the canapé instead.” He snorts with the faintest of smiles. “Good thing Alfred caught on before he did anything.”

Tim glances between the man and the still-covered portrait.

“I’ve driven so many people away since then,” Mr. Wayne laments, reaching out a hand to hook his fingers in the drape. He doesn’t take it off. Just holds it.

Warily, Tim comes closer to stand beside the man, preserving a polite distance. Being next to this person who’s mourning the loss of his son so greatly—it makes Tim hope that his parents missed him. Agonized over the loss the way Tim agonizes over them.

Over how easily he was lost.

Forgotten.

“I’m sure he knew,” Tim offers, “that you would miss him. You must have loved him very much.”

Mr. Wayne nods, dazed. “I did… Jason was the best.”

* * *

_The League of Assassins plays games with a shadow._

_The Detective, they call him._

_He’s the object of everything Ra’s does, an obsession bordering on the absurd. But then again, it would only be absurd if it were truly impossible._

_(It's not. Ra’s always gets what he wants.)_

_As Timothy enters the study that night, he feels the pressure of that reality more starkly than usual. Ra’s is framed by the galaxy of stars through the window, capping miles and miles of veined, rocky desert. Lost in thought as he often seems, the Demon's Head stirs a drink._

_“Timothy,” he greets coolly. “Do you know why I called you here?”_

_“No, sir.”_

_A breeze carries in crinkled dirt and starlight, nudging the orange flame of incense that sits on a nightstand. Timothy shifts to remain in shadow._

_“I have a new assignment for you,” the man says. “It’s one of grave importance to me.”_

_“Perhaps…it would be better to give it to someone else, then.”_

_Ra’s shakes his head. “I’m afraid you’re the only one up to the task. The perfect one, to be frank.”_

_The flame wavers again. This time, Timothy doesn’t move._

_“It involves the Detective. He is…out of sorts, shall I say.”_

_Timothy tilts his head._

_“Grief,” the man clarifies with a sigh. “A terrible affliction.”_

_“What should I do?”_

_“Do what he asks. Whatever he needs." He sets his drink aside. "Be kind to him and love him as fiercely and devoutly as you love me.”_

_“I’m…not sure if that’s possible.”_

_“You’re young,” Ra’s smiles, a cruel hint of kindness in it. “Youth always has love to spare. As well as something…less desirable.”_

_A secondary bout of wind pulls back the embroidered curtains, chasing dust across the rug and shooting a chill through the air._

_“Come here, boy.”_

_At the order, Timothy draws closer, shedding the darkness in favor of a green gaze. He’s not used to talking to Ra’s out in the open, his main job being to serve him from out of sight. Timothy doesn't know what to make of the change._

_“I am surprised at you,” the Demon’s Head says, seating himself in a niche just below the window. He doesn’t indicate for Timothy to follow suit, so the boy remains standing. “You aren’t one to keep secrets from me.”_

_“I’m not sure what—"_

_Ra’s raises his hand._

_Timothy simply stands, trapped between the candlelit confines of the room and the open night through the window. He's at a loss for what to do. Even more so when Ra’s next words hit._

_“Our nomadic friends seem quite fond of you. White Ghost told me you were given the honor of a gift.”_

_Timothy doesn’t breathe._

_“I’d like to see it.”_

_Slowly, Timothy removes the necklace, the matrix turquoise glinting. It aches to let something so wonderful go._

_“Exquisite,” Ra’s says smoothly, turning it over in his hands. “Silly superstition as it is, I do find their handiwork beyond compare. Yes, quite well-made.” The man digs his thumbnail into a rivet, just hard enough to crack. “Tell me, what did they say—when they gave you this?”_

_Timothy doesn’t speak, doesn’t dare without knowing what Ra’s wants._

_“I’m not going to kill them,” the man answers without prompt. “I hold them in too high regard for that, let alone the fact they are our only reliable means of trade. Now tell me.”_

_So, Timothy does. “They said your eyes are soulless. And that you want without end.”_

_Ra’s hums, gaze still admiring the necklace. “Silly superstitions, indeed,” he mutters._

_And just like that, he grips the stone tight enough in his hand to shatter it._

_Timothy flinches._

_“I do think of your youth in times like these,” the Demon’s Head draws on, waxing poetic as he brushes the rock dust off the window’s sill. “Your inexperience. You’re not yet learned in the ways of the world. Otherwise you would’ve known better than to believe folk magic would be able to stop me.”_

_“Sir, I didn’t—“_

_“They have every right to be afraid,” Ra’s interrupts silkily. “I have the ability to gain anything. To end anyone. Too much power, some would think, for one man to wield. But what is the desire of such strength?”_

_Ra’s retrieves his drink, leaning back to look Timothy over while the stars die in the dawn behind. “My dearest boy,” he says. “I only want what all men want._

_“Everything.”_

* * *

The next thing Tim knew, he was on a plane, out of the desert and into a place so different from the one he knew. Despite the distance, thousands of miles from the steppe, the shine of blue beads on necks continues to haunt him. He sees them in his sleep—even now.

He must be cursed. It’s the only way Tim can rationalize it, and he’s lost the sole thing that might’ve been able to fix it. The only gift he’s ever received from this world.

( _That’s not true. I was gifted Ra’s. Another chance at life._ )

But still, Tim startles awake to hear Mr. Wayne’s drowsy placations. (“Just a dream," the man mumbles. "Go back to sleep.”) _A dream_ , Tim repeats, still not understanding.

(Why does it feel like he’s drowning?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> غوار (Qabaqib Ghawar), Ghawar sandals, a hard candy named for the movie/TV character Ghawar, who was known for wearing the sandals/slippers that this candy is made to resemble. They're supposedly quite common in Syria.
> 
> عينيه فارغه (‘aynih farghih) empty-souled or blank-eyed, in reference to the Bedouin (بَدْو) belief in the envious eye. (The Bedouins are the nomadic traders referenced.)
> 
> "There is a reward for kindness in every living thing." ([Quotation of the Prophet Mohammed](https://abuaminaelias.com/dailyhadithonline/2010/09/06/kindness-to-animals/). The translation I used here is the one I see the most in English, although this website’s translation is more faithful to the original.)
> 
> Further Reading: (all are free to access)  
> 1) [The Evil Eye and Cultural Beliefs among the Bedouin Tribes of the Negev, Middle East](https://www.researchgate.net/publication/233321212_The_Evil_Eye_and_Cultural_Beliefs_among_the_Bedouin_Tribes_of_the_Negev_Middle_East_1) by Aref Abu-Rabia, PhD  
> 2) [Rapid Lifestyle, Diet and Health Changes Among Urban Bedouin Arabs of Southern Israel](http://www.fao.org/3/y0600m/y0600m06.htm) by the Ben-Gurion University of the Negev (numerous authors)  
> 3) [Bedouin - Religion and Expressive Culture](https://www.everyculture.com/Africa-Middle-East/Bedouin-Religion-and-Expressive-Culture.html) no author cited  
> 4) [Wikipedia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bedouin) (which is well-sourced)
> 
> Additional Notes: Most of these resources are based around Bedouin tribes of the Negev (southern Israel) whereas I'm placing this story in a fictitious part of the Syrian Steppe. Another thing to keep in mind is that these are generalizations of a large group of people. (For my North American cousins out there, it's like trying to lump the Navajo, Cherokee, and Sioux tribes together--let alone account for the differences between each individual member of those groups.)


End file.
